


Are we, still?  Good.

by SansSoucis



Series: Kissing Knuckles [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A ton of arguing, Angst, Confusion, Dark, Dysfunctional Relationships, England pov, FrUK/Ukfr - Freeform, France POV, Historical, Implied Sexual Content, Love/Hate, M/M, Mentions historic events, New Years Eve, Nudity, Romance, Sad, Scars, Set In Modern Time, Two Shot, Unhealthy FrUk dynamics, cursing, slight sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansSoucis/pseuds/SansSoucis
Summary: Chapter 1: 'He's never been a touchy-feely person, but there's never been anybody who makes him feel quite as lost in his own emotions as France. The flower-crowned child and the little rabbit are long gone, but Francis has been ensnaring him in an complicated web of hating, wanting, needing, feeling ever since they met amidst England’s grassy plains.'It's New Year's Eve, and while his enemy dozes off against his chest, England traces his scars and reminisces on their shared past.Chapter 2: "It hurts to push England back into his familiar spiteful role, but this is all what France knows. Pretend to despise England, let England despise him. He’ll pretend he’s just here for sex, that he thinks England’s a horrible seducer, if that is what makes England hate him. As long as England hates him, he will not fall in love, and they will be alright."On the 1st of January, France awakens amidst soiled sheets, with a still warm imprint of England's body beside him. He wonders what changed between the two of them, when it all started, and what will happen in the future.





	1. Eve

2017, New Year’s Eve. Tiny raindrops splattering against the blurry windows. The sounds of London’s traffic outside. Aside from the DJ on the radio blabbering about, the room breathes comfortable silence.

"What a year." 

His hand lies cold against Francis’ throat, sliding over the slender scar that winds its way around, wiry pink, barely visible in the dimmed light.

He remembers. 1789. The people howling as Francis' golden-locked head tumbled into a rather honourless basket. He remembers the hysteric happiness he felt when he heard the dull thud. He was so happy he'd almost wanted to pull his own skin off.

"What a year." France repeats after him, murmuring sleepily into one of Arthur's couch pillows. 

Arthur curls into him, pulling the itchy tartan blankets that he's owned since at least the 1940's up to cover Francis' bared shoulders. 

There are some little dents there, three small reminders of the morning star that a teenage Arthur slung into the back of his harness with all the force his skinny arms could muster. 

France winces as England touches them, gently rubs the pads of his fingers against the tender dips. Those wounds were made with nothing but rage, animalistic rage that blinded Arthur for a hundred years along with a starving need to claim France, the lands, the throne, the person, as _hishishis_. 

 _That need never truly left_ , England realises with a shock, pressing his lips between two sharp shoulder blades, keeping them there hot and burning. 

Francis stops breathing for about a second, but otherwise does not react to his touch. No screaming. No crying. No fighting. Oh how different it's been. 

He vividly remembers the way Francis struggled beneath him at Waterloo, empty and weak and lost and bloodied in his torn uniform. Even when he was amidst a sea of thousands of his corpses, humiliated, disillusioned and beaten into the ground, Francis still fought against his natural enemy like he had a thousand men behind him. Always so proud, too proud for his own damn good. Arthur _loved_ it.

Nothing, nothing in the world could possibly compare to the wave of sickening triumph that flowed over him as he watched lovely silver buttons scatter into the damp grass and he just _took_ , took what he wanted. 

The four little crescents etched into his neck tingle at the memory. He runs his hand over them, recalling how France's nails broke through the tender skin and he shifts uneasily, guilt heavy on his shoulders.

France hums softly at his restless movements, shifting backwards, trapping Arthur between the back of the couch and himself. Arthur, for once, decides not to snap at him to fuck off, instead gladly trading the ability to breathe freely for the feeling of Francis’ warm body pressed against his chest.

He remembers Gaul on top of him, wicked smile and a tunic with nothing underneath and a field of flowers rustling all around them. Even then, little Albion was already enraptured. 

England honestly doesn't even know when it began, or if it will ever end.  

Francis knocks his bony hand away from where it rests on his upper arm, softly stroking the skin. " _Angleterre_ stop, that tickles."  His voice is laced with sleepy annoyance. 

England snickers but obeys, slithering his arm around France’s chest to rest on top of the blankets. If he truly focuses, he can feel Francis’ heartbeat, slow and heavy, pounding all the way through his own chest, and he closes his eyes, burying his face in golden hair.

Sometimes, he wonders if he has succeeded. If there's anything else besides burns and stab marks and gun wounds and gashes. If there's anything marked beneath the skin. 

If London marked Paris. If Albion marked Gaul. If England marked France. If Arthur marked Francis.

If he has marked anything at all and it's not just hundreds of years of empty squabbling and angry sex. If anything, anything but meaningless. 

England wants France to feel for him and anger is a feeling. But time passes quickly and the hatred has faded into slight discontent over the last hundred years. The thought of that scares Arthur out of his mind.

He feels Francis lace his fingers through Arthur’s own, his voice rumbling against Arthur’s chest. "Alright _rosbif_ , what are you thinking about?" 

If the anger disappears, England is left with nothing but whatever it is he feels when Francis' blue eyes pierce right through his own.  _What then?_

"Nothing for you to worry about, frog."

He's never been a touchy-feely person, but there's never been anybody who makes him feel quite as lost in his own emotions as France. The flower-crowned child and the little rabbit are long gone, but Francis has been ensnaring him in an complicated web of hating, wanting, needing, _feeling_ ever since they met amidst England’s grassy plains.

With France, he knows nothing, even though he’s known him for hundreds of years.

He wants to suffocate France and to suffocate in France. 

He wants to press his mouth to Francis' hundreds of times, as if trying to take back all the foul insults he's spoken with it.

He wants to take Francis and he want Francis to take him, clutching at each other, breaths mingling, legs entwining and _loving, loving,_ _loving_.

He wants France to tighten his hands in his hair while he fists his own in the golden curls, and then he wants them both to pull, tearing each other apart at the seams until there is no England, there is no France, there is no Arthur and there's no Francis, just their tangled souls uniting like they did in the beginning, when all of them were one and not yet separated by oceans, mountains and humans.

When he snaps out of his thoughts, France is eyeing him with curiosity over his shoulder. " _Angleterre."_  

He touches Arthur's cheek lightly, just for a moment, but Arthur can already feel another scar forming beneath the skin. 

" _Angleterre."_

"Yes, I can hear you, France." Arthur snaps, with way more force than necessary. He does not know to stop the centuries-old defence mechanism, just like how he doesn't know how to stop himself from _feeling_ , feeling for France, wanting France to feel.

France turns around, England can see the muscles of his chest ripple beneath the pale skin. His hair looks strangely purple the flickering fairy lights that Arthur bought just a few hours ago in a pitiful attempt to give his cluttered apartment some pleasant ambiance.

It makes England feel strangely emotional, the way their old bones are curled up into each other on his rickety couch after 2000 long years of fighting and fucking.

Francis is quick to notice his watering eyes, his thumb rubbing at the tears, hands boiling on Arthur’s skin. "England." He says sternly. “Tell me, please?”

"I just.." England begins, then pausing, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Hoarse, soft, scared out of his damn mind. He doesn’t even understand himself, how is he supposed to make France understand? "I-"

Francis cocks an eyebrow, lips pursing.

"I'm just.." England lets out a heavy sigh. "Just thinking about the past, I suppose." 

While Francis’ nasal laugh is horribly ugly, his smile is _gorgeous_. Arthur, bloody idiot that he is, loves to see him laugh, even if it’s at his expense.

"Oh, you silly Brit, getting all teared up over a thing like that.” Francis croons, his fingers wandering over Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur’s not sure if he’s mocking or pitying him. He also isn’t sure which one is worse.

"Well we do have an _awful_ lot of _awful_ past, don't we?" Arthur flares up immediately, slightly offended at Francis laughing at his tears. 

Francis' lips curl into a smirk, an expression Arthur has seen on that face millions of times during their shared existence, but contrary to the last 1970 years, there’s no real edge to it anymore, his hand skimming lazily, tenderly even, over the planes of Arthur's chest. 

England thinks of every time France put a blade, sword or bullet in there, in England’s heart, hysterically fluttering beneath France’s palm, and once again wonders what the hell went wrong, why they threw themselves of the familiar path and into a dark abyss of uncertainty.

"We _do_ , _Angleterre_ , we do."  He sighs, toying with the buttons from England's opened shirt, avoiding his eyes. "But that's exactly what it is. _Past_."

"Don't be ridiculous." Arthur hisses. "If we're going to do all of..." 

He gestures vaguely towards the coffee table with the two empty wine glasses and a half eaten camembert, to Francis' shiny loafers, footwear that's way too cold for London in this time of year, lazily thrown onto Arthur's heavy woollen rug. 

None of those objects really succeed in getting his message across, so he just says. "-all of _this,_ we should at least talk about.. _you know_.." 

_The horrible things you've done to me. The horrible things I've done to you. The things I want to do to you._

Arthur hears his own voice soften, waver uncertainly into the tense silence.  "-we should talk about.. _about_.."

France looks at him expectantly, and England chokes on his words. "We're-We're _enemies,_ France!" 

 _Are we, still?,_ he wonders miserably as the words hang heavily in the air between the two of them and Francis’ eyes darken a little.

" _Oui,_ England, I am aware of that. You made it quite clear with your little Brexit stunt." France says coldly. "And we're also old. If we dwell on the past for too long we might get stuck in it forever."

Part of England would like that, travel back to times were all he and France did was hurt and destroy, dragging every other nation and human who dared to mingle with them into their vicious battles. It was easier when he could actually pretend hatred was _all_ he felt for the nation on the other side of the Channel.

"Well I'm sorry, but I can't just sit here and go: _ah jolly fucking new year my darling frog, cheers to another year of tearing each other's head off and fuckin' each other's brains out._ " Arthur spits at him, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of his eyes. He just hates all of it, all of it, years and years and years of history that cannot be changed and a future which cannot be seen.

"That's how it's _always_ been." France says softly and Arthur isn't sure if he's imagining the melancholic tone of his voice. 

"Yeah well, that's the _entire_ fucking problem." Arthur says shakily.  " _This."_ He gestures to their half-dressed bodies, the way his own arm is loosely draped over Francis’ shoulders, the way their chests are pressed together, the way France’s hand is curled into the front of Arthur’s shirt. "Isn't any of _that_."

"No. It's not." France agrees dryly and for a moment England truly wants to throttle him, the infuriating bastard. He’s always enjoyed England’s suffering, but does he not understand, understand that they’re losing _everything_ they know?

"Then _what_?" Arthur breathes helplessly, clutching at France like a dying man. "What are we doing, France? What is this?"

Francis is dangerously close to him, one of his legs hooked around Arthur’s hip. Arthur can smell his sour-wine breath, his lips inches from his own. "You think _I_ know?" He whispers, and for a second he looks just as lost as England feels.  "You _truly_ think I know?" 

Heavy silence follows, only to be interrupted by a cheesy song on the radio, so ridiculously cheerful it seems like it's made to mock the two of them, hands tightly entwined, eyes darting over the other's face in a hopeless search of something old, something familiar, something to despise. It's not there. 

"Let's find out then, shall we?" England mutters at last, and within seconds France's lips crash into his own. 

Two tired bodies finally melting into each other, trembling hands grasping everywhere they can reach, enveloping each other in an unfamiliar heat while their mouths desperately move against one another. Paris collides with London as Gaul embraces Albion and England and France unite.

And as Arthur helplessly arches into the scorching kisses Francis places on his chest, somewhere outside Big Ben loudly announces the beginning of the New Year. 


	2. Morning After

It’s the first of January, 2018. England’s alarm clock tells him it’s 8:14 AM. He sits, frozen, naked, alone amidst a mess of soiled sheets. His hand finds the warm spot beside him, traces the imprint of England’s body, all that’s left in the empty bed. 

Usually he would’ve left by now, head hung low in shame, promising himself to drink less next time, to not let himself by swayed by murmured sweet nothings and empty caresses. But this time something’s _different._

He recognises the work of England’s nimble hands in the neat folds of his own blouse and trousers, placed on the nightstand, a glass of water next to it. Soft rays of winter sun peek through England’s lacy curtains, the room smells like sweat.

France thinks of the last time he was here, tangled in England’s sheets. 1937, the eve of war. Young Germany was now a fully grown man, proud, strong and ready to take whatever he wanted. Their bosses didn’t realize it yet, but England and France knew something was about to change. They were drunk but they didn’t have sex that night, sprawled all over England’s bed as oncoming doom weighed heavily on their shoulders.

Francis remembers the freckles scattered all over England’s arms and shoulders, the shaky promises muttered into darkness. _I’ll protect you._ Arthur had drunkenly whispered against his chest and Francis had laughed at the promise of the little rabbit, with his delicate hands and boyish face, but Arthur only tightened his hold on Francis, clinging onto him like he’d die if he let go. _Let me, France._

France hadn’t let him. Whenever Germany drew him into a bruising kiss, he closed his eyes and thought of England, safe on his little island.

He has always wanted England to be safe, safe from stupid human wars, safe from other nations, safe from _him_. France thinks of himself as a vice, always taking whatever he needed, but never satisfied, never giving enough in return. He doesn’t want Arthur to be subjected to that torture. Even though England has murdered, conquered and plundered, France still sees the uncertain little rabbit he once cared so much about, hidden beneath layers and layers of feigned hatred.

The screeching sound of shower pipes coming from the bathroom shakes Francis out of his thoughts. _England’s still here,_ he realises with a shock. Not only was Francis here, against all odds, Arthur had _stayed_ too. It was all so _wrong._  

His footsteps are heavy on the cold wooden floor as he rises from the bed and walks towards the mirror on the other end of the room. His breath catches in his throat as he spots the bruising hickeys sprawled all over his chest, touches them gently, thinking of England’s tender mouth and the way their hands entwined above France’s head. _It shouldn’t have felt that good,_ Francis thinks, looking at himself in shame. The finger-shaped bruises on his hips make him want to cry. Oh, how he despises himself, drawing Arthur into his web of whorish needs without a single further thought!

A couple of centuries ago, France wouldn’t have minded using England for his own pleasure, just a violent fuck with no strings attached. But things are different, they have been different ever since Germany kneeled and France was _free_ and England, tears in his eyes and a ruined uniform and a tousled tuft of hair peeking out from underneath his helmet, caught him in his arms and pressed the tiniest of kisses to the corner of his mouth before crushing him to his chest. _You fucking frog! I was worried sick! Why did you not come with me at Dunkirk damn you damn you…_ France, thoroughly shocked, let England weep against him, only lightly stroking his back as if afraid England might shatter in his arms.

France’s fingers wander over England’s shaving cream, his hairbrush, the ties that are messily sprawled out all over the drawer. He spots a striped monstrosity hanging over the back of a chair, snickers as he realises it is England’s bathrobe, wraps it tightly around himself, not wanting to look at the marks anymore.

He sits down, opens every single one of England’s perfume bottles, closes his eyes, bathes in the scent of _England,_ recalls images of him in too large suits and frilly coats, giggles. Even though he’d never admit it, even with a knife at his throat, France thinks England looks best as his quirky self, unchained by kings and queens and ribbons and lace cuffs. Arthur’s stuffy sweater vests, his woollen socks, his unruly hair, his _damn_ eyebrows, Francis adores all of it. England is _real_ , unlike so many pretty women and handsome men he’s slept with, their smiles all wide and fake, their real thoughts hidden deep inside their heads.

There’s a large bouquet of white roses on the drawer. Francis touches the soft petals, thinks of two children in a flower field. Albion was just a savage, his tunic way too large for his tiny body and his mouth potty, but his brows were furrowed in concentration as he gently threaded the soft flowers into France’s hair. France stole a quick kiss when England leant in to tuck the last rose behind his ear and then laughed as England loudly cursed at his smug face, then proceeded to smile when he thought France wasn’t looking.

“Stealing my clothes now, are we?” A teasing voice cuts through the silence

France winces at the sound, hands gliding from the tender petals onto sharp thorns. “Ah, _putain!_ ” He hisses, looking accusingly at England’s smug reflection. His hair is darkened and wet, drooping over his forehead. He’s only wearing a towel and a smirk. France swallows heavily.

“ _Angleterre_.” He just says, trying very hard not to let his eyes wander over that familiar boyish body he loves so much. “You scared me.”

“Good.” Arthur says, hands curling around the back of the chair. Possessive.  “What were you even doing?” He casts a questioning look at France and the roses. “Trying to make a flower crown?”

Francis snorts, looking over his shoulder at England. “ _Non_ , I’ll leave that to the professional.”

England grasps a lock of Francis hair, tucking it behind his ear, ignoring the way France shifts uncomfortably at the foreign tenderness of it all. “I really ought to make you another one sometime. It looked lovely on you.”

“ _Angleterre..”_ France says warningly. He made the mistake of giving in to his urges yesterday, he’s not going to continue it.

“It _really_ did, France.” Arthur mutters sadly, running his cold thumb over Francis’ cheek, his eyes filled with warm nostalgia, a desperate want to return to those innocent times where neither of them knew how to handle a sword or a gun. It presses heavily on Francis’ chest.

“I didn’t knew you were such a sap, Arthur.” France says coldly, keeping his face blank even if it hurts him so much to say those words to sweet little Arthur, who is tormented by his own emotions but unable to fully express them.

England’s eyes harden, and he laughs, harshly. His hands glide down to France’s shoulders, tugging at the bathrobe.  “What now? Does the nation of love not want to seduced?”

“Of course I want to be seduced, but I’d rather have it done by someone who’s actually good at it, thank you.” Francis says haughtily, crossing his legs, turning away from England.

“Oh, fuck you!” Arthur snarls, abruptly halting his caresses.  

“You should put some clothes on.”

England’s shoulders are slumped slightly- _disappointment?_ \- as he walks away, gathers his own clothes.

France watches through the mirror as England drops the towel, fully baring his pale stocky body, small feet and toned arms. Freckled nose, boyish jawline, bony ankles. He slides his pants and trousers over long legs, buttons his shirt, buckles his belt.

France thinks of how he unbuckled that very same belt last night, how he kissed the soft skin just above England’s sharp hipbones, tender as a lover would. Thinks of England’s hitched moans and feels dizzy.

He hears Arthur’s angry muttering from all the way across the room, clearly audible over the rustling sounds of garments that are at least forty years old but still look the same. “ _Bloody frog..bitch…insufferable..can’t ever be fucking satisfied..”_

It hurts to push England back into his familiar spiteful role, but this is all what France knows. Pretend to despise England, let England despise him. He’ll pretend he’s just here for sex, that he thinks England’s a horrible seducer, if that is what makes England hate him. As long as England hates him, he will not fall in love, and they will be alright.

“What’s that, _cher_?” France watches England’s back flinch violently as he notices France suddenly standing behind him. His shirt isn’t tucked into his trousers yet, Francis admires the broad strip of pale skin peeking beneath thin shirt tails. He can’t help it, does not know what it is about this man that makes him want to keep teasing, keep prodding, keep hurting just to receive some attention in return.

When England turns around to face him his cheeks are flushed a lovely red, but he looks France straight in the eyes as he repeats himself.

“I said: You can’t ever be satisfied with what’s offered to you, can ye? Shameless! That’s what you are!”

France notices the slight tremble of his voice, the dampness of his eyes, frowns.  It’s like England doesn’t even mean the insult and that thought hurts Francis way more than the words could ever do. Over the last hundred years England has been changing. Softened. Smiles more, screams less. It unnerves him.

France smiles, slowly, seductively. It stings.

_I’m doing this for you, England._

“Offer something _better_.”

Hurt flashes across England’s eyes for just a second before they darken ominously, and he crashes his mouth into France’s, draws him into a heated, hateful kiss.

France surrenders against the spiteful curve of England’s lips. Lets him take, destroy. Lets England’s blunt nails rake over his scalp, winces at the handfuls of hair tangled in those greedy fists. Allows England to push him down onto the bed he wishes he’d never touched.

England’s rutting against him like an animal, sloppy, unrefined like the rest of him. He hears his own pants, harsh and ugly, smothered into England’s neck, and he almost wants to cry out in shame.

“I hate you.” England snarls. “I _really_ fucking hate you.” He sounds too emotional for it to be true.

“Good.” France manages to say in-between his pants, now bucking up to meet England’s hips. It feels so fucking good. Sinful. “Because really I hate you too.” Lies. _Lies._ Tightens his thighs around England’s hips, ignores his thoughts.

“ _Fuck!_ ” England cries, and France doesn’t know if it’s a wrecked sound of pleasure or a desperate sob. He tries not to care, roughly palms England through his trousers.

One of England’s hands fumbles with the ribbon, sliding the bathrobe down his shoulders, exposing the marks, exposing him.

 “Would you look at that?” He growls in admiration, before his mouth is all over the tender skin, lapping, sucking. Francis’ body’s singing with pleasure, but it’s so wrong.  He moans loudly, his back arching helplessly, tangling his hands in Arthur’s hair, trying to make him stop.

Arthur only growls at the sting, continuing to press his glistening mouth to Francis’ chest, and Francis’ feels his body burn because of him. Everything crumbles. England’s too close to his heart. He needs to stay away. He can’t stay away. France lets out a hitched sob as he realises it.

“Am I hurting you?” France opens his eyes to see England staring at him, painfully concerned. The memories of last night come flooding back, memories of England’s soft kisses, his gentle caresses, the way he handled France with rare delicacy, terribly afraid to shatter whatever was blossoming between them.

“Yes.” France says. _Not in the way you think, but yes._ He waits for a smug ‘ _Good._ ’ but it never comes.

“I’m sorry.” England mutters quietly instead, awkwardly kneeling next to France’s sprawled out form, hands trailing lightly over Francis’ chest, eyes swimming with guilt. Even though he’s dressed, he looks so incredibly bare, stripped down of everything what made him Albion, the British Empire, the United Kingdom. It’s just Arthur now, stupid Arthur, sappy Arthur. Arthur who one day will be smothered in his own held back emotions.

_Why does he feel guilty, when it’s really all France’s fault?_

“I have to go.” France says abruptly, breaking out of England’s grip.

“ _What?_ France-it’s like 9 am!” England laughs in disbelief. “You haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

France is already on his feet, gathering his clothes. “I think I’ll be fine without eating the atrocity that you call an ‘ _English breakfast’_.”

“ _France.”_ His voice sounds so helpless. _Fucking clueless England_ , he thinks, _stop falling in love with me_.

  _Does he not understand that France is trying to save the both of them?_

“I-I really need to catch my flight.” Francis stammers, quickly slipping into his trousers, hating the way Arthur’s shoulders slump at the horrible excuse. “I’m sorry.”

England doesn’t make another sound as he gets dressed, instead silently watching as France buttons his shirt, steps into his loafers. The bathrobe droops down into a sad pool on the floor.

He’s at the door when he hears England’s shaky voice call for him. “ _Francis_ , don’t you _dare_ do this to me!”

He stiffens at the use of his human name, turns around just in time to see England, clothes rumpled and bare-footed, catch his wrist. “ _What,_ Arthur.” He spits, trying to yank his wrist out of England’s iron grip. “I really should go. I don’t have time for your poor seduction skills.”

He shouldn’t have come here. _Never._ He’s trapped now. If he stays, England will think he has a chance, if he leaves, England will think he really is a whore like the others say he is. Fuck it then, better hurt England once than torture his heart forever.

“You can’t leave me. Not after last night. After- after we-“ England stammers, flushing bright red, almost choking on his own saliva.

“After we _fucked,_ you mean?” France says harshly. “ _Dieu_ , you can’t even say it. You’re such a little boy, _Angleterre_.”

“We did not just _fuck_!” England roars in a voice that seems too large for his slim body. “We made _love_ , France.”

He’s never coming here again.

“We made love.” England says again after a couple of deep breaths. “And I bloody _loved_ it. I know you did too.”

The accusation drifts heavily into the shared air between them. England’s panting harshly, France can see how he nervously clenches and unclenches his jaw as he waits for a response, whether it be a confession or an insult. The response never comes and France sees some of England’s confidence crumble behind those venom green eyes.

“You dare call me a little boy.” England spits. “But YOU are the one that needs to MAN up for once, to _stop_ fucking _lying_ and admit that something’s _changed_.”

“Things have been changing with us for at least a hundred years England! I can’t help that you’re so _daft_ you’re only realising it now!” France hears his own screams bounce off England’s bedroom walls. “Honestly, who do you think you are? Do you think I want you to confess your undying love to me after one night of drunk sex? It’s _pathetic!_ ”

He gasps as England’s hand lands on his cheek with a surprising force. Burning tingles spread all over his face.

“I do _NOT_ care what name you call me. You can hit me, you can kick me, you can insult me, you can _murder_ me for all I care. You can do whatever you think you need to do in order to make me hate you. Truth is, France, I _don’t_. If anything, you make me hate _myself_ for not hating you!” England screeches in his face, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“I know I’m not an easy person myself.” Arthur hisses. “But you are so incredibly difficult to understand, France. I just don’t _get_ what it is you want from me. Do you want me to fuck you? Do you want me to hurt you? Perhaps you truly hate me still, but why do you keep coming back to me then?”

“ _Angleterre-“_ France says awkwardly, his cheek flushed and stinging, but Arthur cuts him off with a loud sob.

“ _Why_ do you do this to me, France? Fuck. You’re killing me!” He curses, running his hands through his hair in distress, eyes watering.

“Bloody hell, you’re killing me!” England says again, and his voice cracks in desperation. France watches as his little rabbit falls apart on the wooden floor, because of _him._

“You don’t understand! _Arthur_ , I am protecting you! From _me_! You can’t fall in love with me! I’ll destroy you!” France says in a pained voice as England silently slumps down to the floor.

He winces as Arthur jabs an accusing finger in his direction. “YOU.” France notices he’s crying. “YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE IF I LOVE YOU OR NOT!”

“England, _please-_ “ Francis begs, but Arthur doesn’t even hear him.

“You said so yourself last night. _The past is in the past_. I am not a child anymore, I haven’t been for a long time. I do not need your protection, damn it, I need you to let me in for _once_!”

Tense silence follows. Francis watches, frozen, as Arthur gets to his feet, gently taking his hand.

“I don’t know if it’s you or me that you’re trying to keep from falling in love, but you need to stop trying. Because _fuck,_ it is _not_ working!”  England says shakily, running his thumb over the back of France’s hand.  “I’ve loved you for thousands of years. I’ve always wanted you to be mine, Francis.  A-and, I think you feel the same.”

Francis’ feels his heart shatter into a hundred pieces, and tears of a thousand years roll over his cheeks. “I do, Arthur.” He confesses slowly, squeezing Arthur’s hand. “I do.”

They stand together in silence, England and France, Francis and Arthur, nothing touching but their hands, tightly entwined as if never going to let go. France still feels as if the universe is going to collapse right on their heads, but for some reason, with England’s heartbeat thrumming through his palm, he doesn’t really care. Their eyes find each other as they just stand there, mutually admiring how well their hands fit together.

After a while England smirks. “So, breakfast then?”

France’s joyous laugh promises great things in the future.


End file.
